


Benevolence

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Bioluminescence, Bruises, Exhaustion, Fluff, Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not exactly sure what he expected to find inside. Perhaps Strife attempting to figure out the taglock kit and poppet on his own, or working on one of his endless machines or slightly alarming scientific escapades. The man’s diligent and hardworking, Kirin will give him that much at least, even if he is strangely easy to charm and manipulate.</p>
<p>He doesn’t expect to find Strife slumped over a desk, stripped of his power armour, back rising and falling with the slow, steady movements of someone no longer awake.</p>
<p>(Kirin pays Strife a visit after the fight against the Lich, and realises the battle may have taken a slightly unexpected toll on the mortal.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benevolence

It’s only after he’s chased Will off his property that Kirin realises, despite handing both the taglock and the poppet over as per the deal, he never actually told Will how to _use_ them.

Strife’s an intelligent, resourceful man – he should really be able to work it out for himself. But if there’s one thing Kirin doesn’t want, it’s to be accused of not holding up his end of the deal. His sense of morality may be a little… hazy at times, unfettered by the strange passions and ethical stances mortals are so fond of, but he still has one.

He will not allow himself to become known as an oathbreaker.

It’s the work of a thought to find the location of Strife’s base on his map, a mere glance enough to remind him of where it is. He was there only hours ago, after all, although after their little trip through the Twilight Forest it feels far longer than that.

The journey is hardly more complicated, between the various spells and trinkets he’s collected and created. Speed, flight, teleportation combine effortlessly to move the landscape around and below him faster than even his own inherent power can, and a part of him sings to the thrill of it.

Some of the mortals here call him demigod. They’re not quite right, of course, just a little sideways from the truth. But like this, he can almost fancy himself as one.

He arrives at Strife’s tower-castle flanked by rain-heavy clouds and thunder on the horizon, slips through the paranoid layers of defences and booby traps with exactly the same ease he had earlier. They’re hardly complicated, silly mechanical things so easy to dupe and dodge; Strife’s dislike of magic is his downfall, a blind spot in his otherwise comprehensive arsenal of knowledge.

It’s a fairly large blind spot, one Kirin is not above taking advantage of when it suits his purposes.

He’s not exactly sure what he expected to find inside. Perhaps Strife attempting to figure out the taglock kit and poppet on his own, or working on one of his endless machines or slightly alarming scientific escapades. The man’s diligent and hardworking, Kirin will give him that much at least, even if he is strangely easy to charm and manipulate.

He doesn’t expect to find Strife slumped over a desk, stripped of his power armour, back rising and falling with the slow, steady movements of someone no longer awake.

It’s hard to tell whether he’s asleep or unconscious – the smudges under his eyes are dark enough that it looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He could well have just passed out at his desk. The armour upgrade blueprints he’s using as a pillow add some weight to this theory, various tools and half-built pieces of machinery pushed haphazardly to one side to make space for them.

The armour lies in a heap at the side of the desk, pieces piled high and haphazard, as if Strife had discarded each section as he stripped it off. Kirin frowns. It feels almost blasphemous that such an expensive and complex piece of engineering be so casually treated – although judging by the currently-unconscious state of Strife, the mistreatment was probably accidental.

Strife’s eyes are closed, but there’s a faint furrow between his brow and a rising bruise on his cheekbone that glows a faint, luminescent green with every beat of his heart. The freckles that run from the tips of his pointed ears all the way to cluster on the bridge of his nose pulse to the same rhythm, emerald stars scattered across his skin like a living galaxy.

He doesn’t have a bed. Kirin knows that much from when he’d come searching for taglocks for… insurance purposes. It’s a smart move, given the number of witches and magic users around that are more than capable of turning a taglock into a variety of dangerous and unpleasant things, and the number of enemies Strife’s done his best to accumulate. An elegant solution to a potentially tricky problem.

But still. Mortals, human or not, need to sleep, and Will Strife is no exception to that despite his best attempts. Sleeping at his desk or draped over machines can hardly be good for him, as evidenced by the dark smudges under his eyes.

Kirin sighs, looks down at the sleeping mortal and shakes his head a little. It never ceases to amaze him quite how fragile they are, how _breakable_ – and how reckless they are despite it, throwing themselves into danger at every turn.

Or being pushed into it, anyway. The bruise, he thinks, may be his fault; there are others scattered down Will’s forearm, past the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, one peeking out the collar of it, and he thinks of the several blows the Lich got in before Will picked up the knack of reflecting its projectiles back.

It’s testament to Will’s technological capabilities that blows meant to kill have left only bruises, but they are injuries nonetheless.

After a second’s thought, Kirin reaches out a hand, hovers it over the man’s head and sighs quietly.  He tries to tell himself that it’s not guilt prompting his actions, not the slightest hint of emotional attachment to the mortal – but he’s never been good at lying to himself. “You are lucky indeed that I am benevolent,” he says, quietly, watches as Strife stirs ever so slightly in his sleep in response to the words. “This was not part of our agreement.”

For all that the words are gruff, his tone of voice is soft, hushed to prevent the other from waking.

He rests his palm on Strife’s forehead, blinks at the unexpected flare of brightness from the man’s freckles at the contact and the way Strife leans into the warmth and static of it ever so slightly. “Sleep,” he murmurs, a suggestion rather than any kind of spell, waits until Strife calms beneath his touch.

It’s the work of a heartbeat to cast a minor spell of healing, to weave threads of magic through Strife’s body and chase out the worst of the exhaustion and blossoming bruises. He won’t clear it all – doesn’t want Strife to be suspicious, as he surely would be if he were aware anyone was using magic on him – but it’s enough to ensure that, when he wakes up, there’ll be no lingering exhaustion or aches from the previous day.

Beneath the touch of his magic and his hand, Kirin feels Strife slump a little more against the desk, muscles turning liquid beneath the coaxing of the healing and bruises fading to little more than an olive blush.

The healing is finished in seconds, with a mere thought. Kirin lets his hand slide through Strife’s hair for the barest moment, fingers brushing the tip of one freckle-dusted ear, before standing back to admire his handiwork.

Strife’s freckles no longer pulse, but shine with a steady greenish light that casts eerie shadows on the blueprints under his cheek. His breathing’s slow, even, the frown between his brows smoothed over to nothing. “Sleep, Will,” repeats Kirin, allowing the smallest hint of a smile that could, perhaps, be described as fond to curl the edges of his mouth. “Sleep.”


End file.
